Do not pity the English


All recognition and tribute to the words of William Blake and the art of J.M.W.Turner in this piece.

Do not pity the English, who with envious eye espied the patriotic fervour of the Scots, Irish and the Welsh.  This is no joke.

 And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains green: 

 Brooding indignant in sobriety, as cousins sing proudly of their nation and good fortune.  Occasion we might even raise a glass, and then in humour a voice too.  

 And was the holy Lamb of God, On England’s pleasant pastures seen! 

No one told us to lower our flag, or to hush our song – we did.  Some look for solace in agency while others seek an alibi.  But surely no one would pull a lion’s tail?

 And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

 The British thing bewilders; this convenient and grand alliance which did build an empire with blood splatter and glory.  But the politics of court is not heart, but intrigue, avarice and despair.

 And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills?

 We live on an island; we share blood and history.  But whatever great design delivered wealth it did not keep our souls fed.  Each people need their song, ancestors be respected.

 Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire:

 To know that every “Jack” hoistered is in the place of the red cross.  That each half-hearted rendition of Royalist dirge keeps English wind in lungs.  We bumble along after verse one – this is not love!

 Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!  Bring me my Chariot of fire!

The villain in this play is the author of discourse – no foreign agents here.  The twist of plot is such that YOU keep talking of this other land, this Britain? But “we are Albion” so lift your hearts and sing aloud.

 I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:

More than a slander or whispered agitation it is your words and deeds that matter, a legendary people have no want for feigned injury or hurt?  Grasp the rose by thorn and bleed.

 Till we have built Jerusalem, In England’s green & pleasant Land.




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